


Audio Engineering

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She collects the sounds of the universe on a pocket recorder from Woolworths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Audio Engineering

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://orange-crushed.livejournal.com/213981.html?thread=2572253#t2572253) at the [Homecoming Dance Comment Ficathon](http://orange-crushed.livejournal.com/213981.html)! You should go play!

She collects the sounds of the universe on a pocket recorder from Woolworths.

Rhode Island in 1979, short a quarter she earns with a smile, it comes home with her in the fading sunlight, tucked into her bag and swaddled by their day. Ripped Levi’s and bubblegum, a ticket stub and a perfect autumn leaf, things she bought, things they did, and now, a way to capture them.

He laughs and teases and nearly seems insulted, this primitive technology in the face of so much Spock, but she doesn’t relent, clutches it tighter, and he stocks up on batteries while she sleeps.

Then, she listens, in each place, in each time, fingers ringing the record button, until finally, _finally_ , an anthem.

On Lumbaxis 7, the keening cries of newborn triplets, delivered in the thick of war, a rally point for weary soldiers. The trinity, ushered by the Doctor’s hand, mottled purple skin, and such tiny little fingers.

He takes her own later, twining them between his longer ones, dry and cool and scrubbed clean now. But she remembers what they looked like covered in blood, signaling the start of life among all the endings.

It’s the sound of hope, this one is.

On a spaceship, stranded in the 51st century, and it’s nearly Mickey’s voice. Almost the way her name leaps from his tongue, anxious and confused, with no escape they can see.

Instead it’s the sound of shattering glass, a table upturned by her foot in an empty room. It doesn’t sound right, doesn’t match exactly, but she hears the echo just the same, an unbroken loop, again and again and again.

She hates this song.

On Earth, in the past, and her face has returned. A long track this time, celebrations and sing-song toasts, noisemakers and applause, but her favorite is the end. The rustle of cloth, a happy squeak, and the recording is lost in the space of a hug.

They play this one a lot.

On a beach, and she wants to quiet the sea, the waves, the very turn of the Earth, wants to block it all out and only keep him. A symphony of love and a burning sun, and she understands now, it’s not what you hear, it’s who hears it with you.

_Rose Tyler —_ he says, and she saves it in the space of her heart.

The music never stops.

On the TARDIS, a room full of people and a universe too many. Time and space saved and the Daleks defeated, duplicate Doctors and a full pilot staff. It’s the loudest recording yet, and she wants it forever.

Of course, this track skips.

On a beach again, and there’s no time. The gap is closing, almost gone, and she’s used to worlds that aren’t her own, but not for keeps. The album’s flipped, the music all wrong, Side A to Side B and she’s always had her favorites. Words she wants and noises she needs, love and the hum of the TARDIS.

He takes them both and leaves them behind.

They sing to each other now.


End file.
